


Highs, and Your Lows (i will weather them)

by RageSeptember



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bodyguard!Mickey, Canon Compliant (Mostly), Canon-Typical Slurs, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Cuddling, Family Dynamics, Ghosts, Handcuffs, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous!Ian, M/M, Meta, Mickey Makes Good Choices (sometimes), Mickey Needs A Hug (and gets it), Nightmares, Overcoming Trauma, Pre-Canon, Season 1, Season 3, Subtle D/s Dynamics, alternative universe, season 10, season 4, series of One-shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: Ian and Mickey, together, apart, and through the years.Or, a series of short Gallavich one-shots. Check the chapter titles for vague descriptions of each ficlet's content.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 60
Kudos: 301





	1. Pre-Canon: Mickey, Girls, Hygiene.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of my Tumblr shorts, some of which blur the lines between fic and meta. 
> 
> You wanna hit me up on Tumblr, look for gallavictorious.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some girls will not be warned off by the bad boy routine. Mickey finds another way.

Mickey is sixteen when he decides that personal hygiene is something he's better off without.

The realization comes to him when he's trapped by Allie Johnston in the boys' locker room between second and third period. She has been eyeing him for weeks, and he has been avoiding her for as long, but yeah, here she is now, bold as anything, and determined.

”You wanna have sex with me?” she asks, not beating around the bush and not giving him any chance to feign cluelessness and flee.

_Fuck._

He's a Milkovich, known thug and heir to his fathers ramshackle empire of backalley crimes, and that's enough to scare most girls off, but there's always a few who'll go for the whole bad boy routine. Some of them are pretty, too – or at least too pretty for any variant of ”nah, she's too ugly” to work as an excuse to refuse her.

(And it's a risky excuse even if the girl look like a rat's mauled ass, because almost as bad as anyone realizing the truth is anyone assuming he has aspirations above his station; wanting something he can't have; holding out for _a nice girl_. That would be weak and thus, though paradoxically, fucking gay. If a girl is willing, you do her, no matter if she's ugly or stupid or mean. She still has a pussy, right, and that's all you should care about.)

Now here is Allie and she is almost pretty and he thinks she is probably sort of nice if a little dumb and she's moving towards him with what she must think of as a coy look. Mickey feels his chest tighten, heartbeat speeding up, and he hates her, he hates her, he hates her, but he tries for a smile: ”Gonna be late for math.”

She raises an eyebrow, seductively or disbelievingly, he doesn't fucking know. ”You rather do equations than me? You gay or something?”

”Yeah, right, I'm fucking gay,” he drawls, grinning, such a funny joke, _absurd_ , and he grabs hold of her arms and pushes her against a locker, hand reaching down to grope between her legs.

Allie makes a happy little noise into his neck. ”You smell really nice,” she says breathlessly. ”I've always thought that.”

Mickey doesn't shower the next morning, or the next. He runs his fingers over the dirty backs of park benches and rubs his face. His clothes are his clothes, but he wears them for a few days too long, and leave them in piles on the floor overnight. It's not nice, but better than the alternative. You get used to the smell, eventually.

”Hey, asshole, why don't you wash yourself once in a while?” Mandy mutters. ”You fucking stink.”

”Fuck do I care,” he says. Why _should_ he care? It's just his body. Bodies do all sorts of weird shit, react to weird shit in sick ways you have no control over. It's just a piece of meat, it has nothing to do with _you_.

No girls seek him out behind the gym or after class or during recess. If he wants to fuck – and he still needs to, once in a while, or people will talk – he has to seek _them_ out, and of course the pretty and confident ones will turn him down, stuck-up bitches can't handle the smell of a real man, of course the only ones he can score are the crushingly insecure or the mindlessly horny. They take whatever he has to offer, doesn't ask for more, and should any of them ever say anything about anything... who the fuck's going to believe them?

It's not nice, but what is in this shithole?

(There'll be a boy, years from now, freshfaced and wide-eyed and he'll look at Mickey like he's a fucking revelation, and it comes to Mickey then that maybe he wouldn't mind this boy thinking he smelled nice. It's a faggety thought, so he dismisses it, but the next day he goes out to pick up some soap. Might as well, if only to get Mandy to stop bitching about it.)


	2. Post-Season 10: Restrained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey doesn't hate being restrained, much to his surprise (though not to Ian's).

Now, I’m not sure exactly what triggers it, but I imagine it’s not entirely dissimilar to the wedding day situation, insofar that Mickey is determined to do something that might land him back in prison, and Ian is Having None Of It. Like, maybe he finds out that Mickey is in on a drug deal of some kind and about to head out to pick up the merchandise, or maybe someone’s pissed Mickey off to the point where he wants to actually murder or at least maim them. It doesn’t take all that much for Mickey to commit a crime, so it could be anything.

But yeah, Ian is not about to let his husband get his stupid ass incarcerated again, so he blocks the stairs, and blocks all of Mickeys’ attempts to push past him: ”You’ll get yourself thrown back in prison!” - ”Get out of my fucking way, Gallagher.” - ”You’re not fucking doing this.”

There is a scuffle, and while Mickey isn’t even close to feral, he’s still Mickey, pissed off and stubborn as fuck and not exactly shy about expressing it. But Ian is just as stubborn, and stronger, and it ends as you might expect, with Mickey neatly cuffed to the iron headboard of the bed in their room. Mickey is raging, Ian strugling to remain calm but visibly really fucking annoyed.

”Keep an eye on him,” he tells Liam (who rolls his eyes, because this is the least impressed child ever and we must love him for it). ”I’ll sort this out.”

And he does, and he comes back, and he closes the door to their room behind him when he enters. Mickey’s calmed down a little by now, but he’s still pretty pissed, glaring daggers at Ian.

Ian meets his stare levelly. ”It’s taken care of. Ramirez is in police custody. You won’t hear from him again.”

Mickey makes a rude noise, because _police custody_? That’s a real pussy-ass move. Not much he can do about it now, though, so he just drawls: ”Well done, citizen. A real upstanding white collar motherfucker, aren’t you, a real fucking pride to your goddamn country.” A beat. ”So, you gonna uncuff me or what?”

Ian might smile here, but it’s tightlipped thing. ”Actually, I was thinking maybe you should just stay there for a while. Give you a chance to, you know, reflect on things.”

Mickey blinks. ”Reflect on – ! You putting me in a fucking _time-out_?”

Ian offers a small shrug, tilts his head in that way that very clearly says _yeah, that’s absolutely what I’m doing_ , and Mickey gives a disbelieving laugh that is half a snarl: ”You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

But Ian isn’t. Of course he fucking isn’t.

And Mickey would rage and trash and threaten, really he would, but he knows – knows only all too well, from the determined look on Ian’s face - that this won’t accomplish a damn thing, other than make him look like an idiot.

Like hell he’s giving Ian that satisfaction.

”Whatever, man,” he says. ”I don’t give a fuck.” And he looks away, projecting – attempting to project – the most pointed disinterest possible.

Ian is completely unfazed. He shrugs out of his jacket, kicks off his shoes probably, and grabs the book he’s been reading from the nightstand. Climbs onto the bed, and sits down with his back to the wall under the window, at an angle from Mickey. Puts his calves across Mickey’s, absolutely casual, and begins to read.

Mickey would ask what the hell he thinks he is doing, but he’s ignoring Ian, so he can’t.

(And Mickey isn’t stupid, so of course he gets that Ian is giving him space while at the same time staying close, keeping him company. He refuses to be touched by that. _Refuses_. Ian is being a fucking pain and an asshole.)

A minute passes. Ian reads. This is ridiculous. Mickey gives a huff. ”Can I at least get a fucking beer?”

Ian looks up at him, briefly. ”No,” he says before returning to his book, and there’s nothing spiteful about it. A matter of fact, that’s all.

And so they sit, Ian reading, and Mickey doing nothing much at all. The sun falls in through the window; the light is golden, and the noises from the street and the rest of the house are blessedly muffled. Out there, life goes on; in here, there is quiet.

Unexpectedly, grudgingly, Mickey feels himself starting to relax. Whatever happens beyond this room, he can’t do shit about it, and that’s… strangely freeing.

Ian turns a page. His legs pressing down on Mickey’s shins are heavy, warm. Grounding.

Mickey’s thoughts drift, becoming slow and quiet. He feels kind of empty, but not in a bad way. A tension he didn’t know he carried begins to ease. Somewhere far away, a woman laughs. The duvet is soft under his fingers.

Time passes, maybe an hour, and then Ian puts his book away, looks straight at Mickey. There’s nothing strange on his face, no anger or annoyance, no condescension or concern. He just looks at Mickey, the way he always does. ”You wanna grab dinner?”

Maybe it takes Mickey a moment ot answer. Maybe he blinks a few times, shakes his head to clear it. Then: ”Yeah. Sure.” No anger in his voice either. He can’t really remember ever feeling this… _still_.

Ian uncuffs him, does it unceremoniously and without comment. Once they are both on their feet, he pulls Mickey in for a long kiss that is nothing but soft, nothing but tender. His arms are wrapped around Mickey, his fist curling in Mickey’s hair.

Then they grab their jackets and head downstairs, returning to the world, with Ian’s arm slung around Mickey’s shoulders.

(The sex is going to be absolutely _glorious_ that night, but that’s another story, for someone else to tell.)


	3. Pre-Canon: Mickey, Girls, Hygiene.

Imagine Mickey then, upset about something, something _real_ that tugs at all that fucking pain and trauma he’s never really had the opportunity or cared to work through. Could be anything really, something to do with Terry, or the forced marriage, or the kid he never wanted but maybe grew to love a little. There’s lot of other shit too, so take your pick.

He is angry and he’s hurting, and he deals with it in the only way he knows how: getting shitfaced first, then picking a fight, and since it’s Ian he happens upon, it’s the kind of fight that might end in blood or end in fucking (and probably ends in both, because yeah, old habits die hard). But while Ian is never not a covert street rat and still doesn’t mind a bit of the old ultra violence, he’s done a lot of growing up and at heart he is a caretaker – and he _knows_ Mickey.

So he grabs hold of his husband, pins him down or pins him against the wall, gentle but firm in the storm of Mickey’s rage and imaginative insults, and says:

”Hey, if you wanna throw some punches, sure, we can do that, or if you wanna bang I’ll fuck you so hard you forget your goddamn name, but… if you need me to just fucking hold you, that’s okay, Mickey.”

And I think that Mickey, not the same kid he once was either, will take a moment, and he won’t look at Ian at all, and then he’ll just nod. Ian lets go (half expecting Mickey to fly at him the moment he’s free, but he doesn’t) and they’ll move to the bed, Ian lying down first. 

”Come here,” he says, voice so calm, voice so warm, and Mickey still doesn’t meet his eyes, but lies down next to him. Does it slowly, perhaps, hesitantly – but lies down, on his side, arm over Ian’s chest and face hidden in the nook of his neck.

And Ian, who loves him, will say nothing but will press a kiss to the top of his head and then just hold him so very, very close, as he slowly cards his fingers through Mickey’s hair.

Maybe there’ll come a time when Mickey wants to look inward and find the words for the grief he carries; maybe. Not yet, though, not tonight. For now, this will be enough: Ian’s arms around him, heart pressed against heart, and stillness where once there would have been shouting.


	4. Post-Season 10: Mickey the Bodyguard, Oblivious.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to one of my posts about Mickey needing to get into personal security, Tumblr-user starkcravingmad mentioned a teenage charge crushing on an oblivious Mickey. So, this happened.

”You going out? I thought you weren't working tonight.”

Mickey looks up from his tie to see Ian leaning against the doorframe, in uniform and with his hair neatly slicked back.

”Nah, it isn't work. Well, not exactly,” he says, finishing the knot and taking a step back to admire the result in the mirror. He's getting pretty good at this. Lots of practice in the last few months, ever since he took the bodyguard gig officially on the road. Clients like it when he wears a tie. ”You know the chick I've been babysitting for the past few weeks, the one whose stalker I caught trying to climb in through the fucking window? She and her dad's taking me to some fancy place, uh... Piccolo something, to thank me. Since you're working the late shift, I thought – ”

Ian interrupts, straightening: ”Piccolo _Sogno_? Like, that really romantic place down in West Town? You telling me the girl who has a crush on you is taking you _there_?” He pauses, looking at Mickey with a cross between disbelief and bemusement. ”Are you going on a fucking _date_?”

Mickey stares at him. ”What the hell are you talking about?” he demands. Crush? Date? _What?_

_\---_

The chick's name is Charlotte Eckerton.

He was supposed to call her Ms. Eckerton, she insisted he say Charlie, and what he actually went with was usually some classic television reference that she didn't get, or – when she's was being particularly annoying – ”hey, brat”. She was probably no worse than any other spoiled little North Side princess, but Mickey sure as hell didn't get why anyone, no matter how loony, would want to stalk her, because literally all she did was go to class, study, shop, and party with her equally irritating friends. Oh, and endlessly updating her Instagram stories with every last detail about her _fascinating_ life, of course. He put a quick stop to _that_ , because continually announcing your location to the public when a deranged psycho was stalking you was... well, let's face it, it was about as stupid as he expected from these people.

She threw a tantrum when he swapped her phone for one with restricted access to social media apps, and she tried to give him the slip at least twice a day for the first four days, going as far as paying some other goons to attack him while she made a run for it. She was not completely stupid, he had to give her that, and he was beginning to understand why her father had come to him rather than hire a more well-established firm. The girl was a complete nuisance, and occasionally quite clever about it. Clearly needed someone wise to all the tricks, and unafraid to rein her in and tell her in no uncertain terms when she was being an idiot.

Mr. Eckerton was loaded, having made his fortune doing some IT-shit or other, and for the kind of money he was offering, Mickey was prepared to put up with a quite a lot of hare-brained shenanigans, as well as hanging out at the Magnificent Mile afternoon after afternoon, and listening to the brat's endless babble about... hair? Make-up? Bands? Whatever. He didn't really pay attention; he'd have needed to be paid hell of a lot more than he was to do _that_.

After a week or so of thwarted escape attempts Charlotte had exchanged overt defiance for a more subtle approach, trying to throw him off his game by suddenly gifting him stuff, like a dark gray shirt ”that goes really well with your eyes”. He took the shirt, because it _was_ pretty nice, as was the watch and the stupidly expensive hair-product she produced in the following days. He was a little insulted she thought he could be bought so easily, though; she'd have needed to double her father's money, at the very least – or gotten him a nice car. He had said as much to Ian, who had eyed the gifts with an unreadable expression on his face, and had failed to comment.

When bribery too proved a failed tactic she started asking a lot of personal question instead, fishing for weaknesses to exploit. Her strategy was pitifully obvious, however, and Mickey gave her nothing but monosyllabic responses. Finally, she resigned herself to being stuck with him for the time being, and mercifully stopped pestering him about letting her go to whatever concert or party was happening that night. She still dressed up and put on elaborate make-up every damned evening, though, even if it was just the two of them chilling at her place, but he supposed it was something for her to do. Fuck knew he could sympathize with the boredom of being locked up. 

So that was Charlotte, spoiled and stubborn and maybe a little bit clever underneath it all. Not the worst person he could imagine babysitting, not by a long shot, but not one he'd think back on either, now that the job was done. He probably wouldn't even have accepted her and her father's invitation to take him out for a meal, if it hadn't been for Ian's occasional insistence that he needed to be ”nicer to his clients” and ”cultivate professional contacts”. This only made his husband's reaction to the whole situation all the more annoying –

”It is not a date,” Mickey says flatly, irritation coloring his voice, because Ian is smiling at him in all too knowing way. ”I probably saved her fucking life, she wants to buy me dinner. That doesn't make this a – Listen, her fucking _father_ is going to be there.”

”Yeah, sure he will.” Ian crosses his arms, still smirking like an asshole, but there's just a hint of an edge to the smile now. ”Does she even know you're gay?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. ”Of course she fucking knows, because I open every damned conversation with 'Hi, I'm Mickey and I love cocks' like a normal fucking faggot. Jesus. It hasn't come up. She knows I'm married.”

”Like _that's_ gonna – ”

They're interrupted by the door to Liam's room opening, the boy stepping out to give them his very best judgemental look. ”Why are you yelling? I need to study.”

”Oh, it's nothing,” Ian says casually. ”Just Mickey having a date tonight. With a teenage girl.”

”She’s nineteen, and I am _not_ – !”

Liam frowns. ”Is this like when he was fake-dating Byron to make you jealous? Are you going to go on a fake date too? With a girl?” He pauses, frown deepening: ””Is there a Grindr for straight people?”

Ian's spared a reply as Lip comes up the stairs with Freddie in his arms. He pauses on the top step, brow furrowing as he takes in the scene: Mickey, dressed to the nines and with a scowl to match, Ian smiling with his arms crossed, and Liam wearing his trademark look, the one that says that everyone else is a bit of an idiot. ”What's going on here?”

”Mickey's going on a date with a woman.” Liam offers it readily, a true believer in the free dissemination of information. Probably something he picked up at private school.

Mickey gives a half-choked groan. ”It's _not_ a – ! You know what, fuck you.” With one last glare and an extended middle finger, Mickey grabs his jacket and storms off.

Ian, Liam and Lip watch him go, nonplussed. Lip glances at Ian: ”Huh. Less than a year of marriage and you've already turned him off men.”

”Yeah, well. Have to admit I didn't see that one coming.”

\---

The restaurant _is_ fancy as hell, linen cloth and candlelight, one person to take his coat and another to show him to the table. Charlotte is already there, blonde hair pulled back in a strict ponytail, something expensive glittering around her neck and drawing attention to the generious helping of skin her lowcut black dress offers.

The table is set only for two. Mickey frowns as he takes his seat. ”Your father coming?”

”No.” The smile she gives him is very innocent. ”He got held up in a meeting, so he called to say he can't make it. He said to tell you sorry, and to thank you so much for your service.”

Listen to those alarm bells going off all at once... Mickey tries to mentally shake it off. It's nothing to worry about. Just Ian putting weird ideas into his head. ”Uh, yeah. Don't worry about it. Just doing my job.” He waves for the waiter to bring him a beer. He does need a drink, quite urgently.

Charlotte leans forward, looking up at him from under half-closed lids with a very intense expression on her perfectly moisturized face. ”You were _so brave_ when Smithson attacked me. I don't know how _I_ can ever thank you enough. You know, my father is paying for this meal, but if there was something else you wanted... ?”

And that's her grabbing the olive from her drink and very deliberately pushing it past her lips and _that's_... that's her foot, sans shoe, slowly sliding down his calf.

 _Oh._ Fuck. This _is_ a date. Inwardly groaning, Mickey rubs a tired hand over his face, before looking straight at Charlotte: ”You know I'm fucking gay, right? Like, married to a man?” Jesus, Ian is never going to let him hear the end of this...

Charlotte reels back just a little, mouth falling slightly open. He's prepared for shock, disgust even – but instead a dreamy look appears on her face. ”Oh my god, that is sooo hot!”

_What?_

\---

He feigns sleep when Ian reuturns home a quarter past midnight, but his husband isn't fooled. ”How was your date?” he murmurs as he slips in under the covers and wraps his arms around Mickey from behind.

”Shut the fuck up.”

A quiet laugh, a kiss pressed to his shoulder. ”I take it you're sticking with cocks for now then.”

And sure, there's a teasing edge to the words, and sure, he'll hear about this for-fucking-ever, but... Mickey turns around, facing Ian. ”I guess I am,” he agrees, reaching up to run his thumb over Ian's cheek.

Whatever mischief is there fades from Ian's eyes, from his voice: ”I'm glad,” he says simply, and pulls Mickey in for a kiss.

Yeah. So is he. 


	5. Post-Season 10: Mickey, Yevgeny.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one may or may not have been inspired by teatrolley's gorgerous fic "and i hear your ships is coming in".

Mickey doesn't plan it.

He doesn't plan it, but it's been on his mind for a while now, on and off, so when he overhears V picking up Liam for some Black Excellence art exibition, and the clock just so happens to strike a few minutes to the quietest hour in any bar, he grabs his jacket and heads for the Alibi, not giving himself time to dwell on his decision. Ian is working and the rest of the family's scattered so no one will miss him, no one will wonder where he is.

No one will know.

Mickey pauses just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of the bar before quickly scanning the room. If there's anyone else in there, anyone he knows, he'll just grab a beer, drink it, and leave –

But there's just a couple of old men nursing their beers in silence in one of the booths. Neither look like they'd notice a bomb going off right next to them, much less like they'd be even remotely interested in anything but their drinks. They're no reason for him not to do what he came here to do; he can't say if he's more relieved or disappointed.

Kev looks up from slicing lemons as steps up to the bar and offers an easy smile. ”Hey, Mickey. What can I get you, man?”

”Beer,” he mutters, grabbing one of the stools.

He gets the beer and takes a deep swig, half-dreading, half-hoping that Kev will ask him what he's doing here at this time of day. But Kev doesn't ask, just gives him one long, searching look before going back to his citruses.

No one will ever call Kevin bright, but he does pick up a hell of lot more than people give him credit for.

Mickey sips at his beer. Kev finishes up with the lemons, starts on a pile of limes. One of the old men slouches to the bathroom, is gone for a minute, asks for another drink at the bar, and rejoins his friend in the booth. Mickey's glass is almost empty. Someone he knows might walk in at any moment. His hands feel cold and clammy. He needs to man the fuck up.

”Hey,” he says, staring at the bottles behind the bar rather than at Kev. ”You and V had a thing with Svetlana, right? She was staying with you. Her and.. and Yevgeny.”

Kev had put the knife down the moment Mickey started talking, apparently anticipating _something_ , but now his eyes widen. ”Oh shit, man. He's your son. I totally forgot that he's your son.”

And that shouldn't hurt, because why _would_ anyone remember that Yev is Mickey's kid? Mickey sure as hell hasn't made much of an effort to. And yet... it kind of stings.

Mickey waves his hand, to dismiss Kev's apologies and his own scrambled feelings of resentment and regret. ”Yeah, whatever. But you spent some time with him, right?” He hesitates for a moment, but it's too late to back out now: ”What was he, you know, like?”

It takes Kev a few moments to answer, and Mickey feels his shoulder tense up even further. If the fucker as much as –

”He was good, man.” Kevin smiles, an inward thing; looking back. ”Like, easy-going. The girls are really picky eaters, but Yev just ate whatever we gave him, and he never made a fuss at bathtime or when we brushed his teeth. He didn't speak much, but I guess the girls didn't either, and I think it's actually a thing, you know, that kids start talking later when they hang out a lot with other toddlers when they're small, they have their own ways of communicating or something. And, uh, he really liked picture books, and watching _Justin Time_ , and he was starting to get into coloring too, when Svet moved out. He didn't like getting his hair cut, though, he would scream like you were cutting his fingers off or something.”

Mickey lets go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He tries to imagine it: Yev, at dinner; in front of the television; with crayons in his hand. Can't, not quite. He remembers what he smelled like as a baby, remembers his ready, unknowning smile whenever Svetlana brough thim to prison – but only vaguely, because Mickey'e eyes were always straying further, towards Ian –

”You gonna try and see him?”

He starts at the question. Glances at Kev; glances away. ”I don't know.” His voice sound strange to his own ears. Hoarse. ”Don't think Svetlana would be thrilled to hear from me. And I figure the kid's probably better off anyway.”

”Nah, that's bullshit, man. A boy needs his father.”

Mickey makes a face at that, because he is pretty sure he would have been hell of a lot better off without _his_ father. Besides: ”Don't _you_ have a son? Like, with your mother in law? You ever see him?”

Kevin's face falls. ”Yeah... No. No, it got a bit weird with V, you know, me having a baby with her mama.”

”Yeah, I bet.”

Silence for a moment, as Kev puts the lime slices into a bowl, puts the cutting board away. Then: ”I probably have some pictures and videos of him, too, you know, with the girls. I could have a look, put them on a memory stick for you if you want?”

Why the fuck would that offer hit him like a fucking punch to the gut? He barely paid any attention to the kid when they were living together, has rarely thought of him since – at least not until he got out of prison and came back here. He's not sure if it's being around Franny, or seeing Lip with Freddie, or watching Ian go so fucking soft whenever the baby is around, but for whatever reason, he's found his thoughts drifting back to Yevgeny every so often lately.

Mickey drains his beer, swallowing hard. ”Whatever, man, do what you want.” Can't quite bring himself to say please or thank you. He isn't even sure he _wants t_ o see a bunch of photos of the kid. Isn't sure of fucking anything.

Kev nods. ”I'll drop by tomorrow.”

”No, that's fine, man. I'll come here, same time.”

And Kev really does pick up more than people give him credit for, because he just looks at Mickey and nods again, and Mickey knows he won't mention this, not to V and not to anyone else. 

Not to Ian, who wants kids and who loves Yev.

Mickey stands. ”Thank you,” he mutters, and it's a gruff thing, but he forces himself to look Kev straight in the eye, inclining his head ever so slightly before turning on his heel and heading out, back into the bright day.


	6. Post-Season 10: Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every once in a while, we need something dreadfully soft and utterly sentimental. Except Terry. Terry needs to be put away.

And then one day, not too long after the wedding, they learn that Terry has been arrested for arson.

It's the owners of the Bamboo Lotus who have named him, and fuck knows if they're principled and brave – or stupid – or maybe just new to the area and don't know enough to know not to mess with the Milkoviches.

Mickey is called to testify. ”Without being able to demonstrate a history of homophobic abuse, we won't have a motive,” the prosecutor argues. ”Without that, he's unlikely to be convicted. The actual evidence is mostly circumstanial.”

Predictably, Mickey isn't convinced: ”Fuck that, I ain't testifying.”

”You'd kill your father but not testify against him?” Tami asks, later, when they're all gathered in the kitchen for a family dinner and she hears about it.

She's not from the South Side. She doesn't get it.

Ian does. Gets it only too well – but even when you _are_ from the South Side, that's not _all_ you need to be, and there are still choices you can make. So he grabs a couple of beers, grabs his husband by the hand, and takes him somewhere they won't be disturbed. And then he talks: talks of the past he would wish undone, and of the future he hopes for, and how the latter might not come until they've laid the former to rest. But this is Mickey's decision, and no matter what and either way, Ian will stand by him, always.

I don't know if Mickey says anything at all that night, and I don't know how many hours or days or weeks he'll need to wrestle with his deeply ingrained ideas about identity and loyalty and family and manhood before he is ready to put the life he wants before of the life he was given. He makes the choice, eventually, and there is a terribly courage to it.

The big day comes, but here's the kicker: Ian can't make it to court. Some kind of disaster, I imagine, people dead and injured and in need of immediate medical attention, and he just... can't make it. Calls Lip, desperate, and asks him to be there, in Ian's stead. And Lip says sure, and he tells Tami and she – somewhat to his surprise – insists on coming, too, and Debbie hears it from Sandy, and Carl and Liam maybe happen to be around, and one way or another, when Mickey steps into that courtroom, the Gallaghers are out there in force, for him.

He is called upon and he takes the oath and tells it all. Tells it straight and to the point, but tells it all. He refuses to look at Terry (who is cautioned that he will be held in contempt if he doesn't stop with the verbal abuse he launches into the moment Mickey takes the stand), and he refuses to let his voice crack.

Before he is allowed to step down, the judge – an elderly black lady, I think – turns to him: ”Just a moment, Mr. Milkovich. I see here that you've had quite a few run-ins with the law yourself, starting when you were... eight years old.”

Mickey just looks at her for a moment, tense, because where the fuck is she going with this? There's no denying it, though: ”Yes, Your Honor.”

”I also have a report from your parole officer that says that since your release from prison you've been gainfully employed, you have gotten married to your longterm partner, and have helped care for your husband's younger siblings and their children. For all intents and purposes, it appears that you're well on your way towards a more stable lifestyle.” She looks up from her papers, offers Mickey a small smile, Terry a withering look: ”Considering the _remarkable_ obstacles you've had to overcome, I'd say you are doing very well, Mr. Milkovich. Keep up the good work.”

And then it is over. Mickey is just a witness; he need not stay for the whole thing, and he doesn't. As soon as he's allowed, he walks past Terry without a second glance, walks straight out of the courtroom – and the moment the door closes behind him, he just _slumps_.

Probably Debbie gets to him first, and puts her arms around him because Ian isn't there to do it, but she's soon followed by the rest of them, Lip and Tami and Carl and Liam and maybe Franny, too. They stand around Mickey and hold him up and hug him tight like he's one of their own, because that's what he is, now. And I think that, for the very first time, Mickey feels it too – or maybe he's just too fucking shaken to break away from the embrace. Either way, it happens.

\---

The court sends Terry away, and this time he's not coming back. A few years will pass – enough of them for Mickey to not feel very much at all when the news of his fathers's death reaches him. Maybe he'll grab a drink; maybe he'll find the bastard's grave just to piss on it; most likely he'll just go about his day. It isn't death that finally frees him of Terry – he does that himself, day by day and bit by bit, and while the scars never go away, they _do_ fade. Fade, in the face of casual cookouts at Lip's, quiet evenings at home, and Franny's easy trust. Fade, as shadows fade in the light of every morning he wakes up next to Ian, in the days, and years, and all of life to come.


	7. AU: Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A century or so ago, in a small town, Ian Gallagher receives and unexpected visitor.
> 
> Be warned: there's a lot of angst and not much comfort in this one.

Ian wakes with a start, heart a-hammering. Down by the town square the church bell is ringing out midnight, but he knows with a certainty that this isn't the noise which roused him.

Sitting up, he darts a quick glance down at his brothers next to him on the thin mattress; Philip's flat on his belly as always, and Carl's curled up on his side, snoring. Another look tells him that Fiona's fast asleep on the kitchen bench, with Liam in her arms, and over by the fireplace someone – Debbie, for sure – has draped an old blanket over Frank's sprawled form. He must have stumbled home after the rest of them went to sleep, having wasted on liquor what little money he made cheating passer-throughs at cards down in Mr. Ball's saloon. Debbie herself is stretched out on her pallet by the window, red hair a shining gray in the pale light of the moon. Ian frowns. The family's all there, all accounted for and all asleep, so what woke him?

And then he spots the young man standing in the middle of the room. Can't understand how he didn't see him straight away, because he's only three feet away from Ian, dressed in a dirty longcoat and with a scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. His hair is dark, and there's something familiar – 

”Mickey?” Ian asks, and as soon as the name spills over his lips he knows that he's got it right. It _is_ Mickey, youngest and wildest and most dangerous of the Milkovich boys. Terror, thug, thief and brawler; his father's son in every way, that's what the old ladies who come to buy their groceries at Mr. Karib's store say; sure to hang before he's one-and-twenty.

He's a year or two older than Ian, and they'd gone to school together for a while, before Mickey was expelled for stealing the milk money again, and for naming miss Jackson a twice-poxed loony. Since then he's been a menace and a cautionary tale, dealing in his father's ill-gotten goods and violence for hire whenever he isn't locked up. And now he is here, standing in the middle of the moonlit room, face half in shadow and half-covered in something dark that Ian with a jolt realizes must be blood. It's on the his clothes, too, all over them, and Ian should be scared, but he isn't.

In spite of the blood, Mickey doesn't look wild or dangerous now, only young. More boy than man, it seems to Ian, and that is a strange thing, for though slight of build, Mickey Milkovich has always loomed large, the threat he represents so far exceeding his small frame as to completely warp the perception of it. Ian's never noticed how fine his features are before, how straight is his nose, or how beautiful the curve of his eyebrows. ( _Liar. Liar. Liar. You noticed, every time you saw him, you looked and you noticed, you sick –_ )

As if roused by the soft call of his name, the boy trains his gaze on Ian and frowns: ”Gallagher? You're the one working down at the darkie's store.” Something odd about his voice – it's too soft, too hesitant. Ian can't make sense of it; focuses on the words instead.

The store, Mickey says, so casual, as if he isn't in there thieving every week, and Mr. Karib daren't do a thing about it, in spite of his wife calling him a coward, calling him all sorts of names. She's bitter about marrying a foreigner, Ian thinks. It was the talk of the town when it happened, but she stood her ground and now she's shamed that her husband doesn't have the guts to stand up to a villain like Mickey Milkovich, and no matter that no one else in this godforsaken town has the guts to either.

”What are you doing here?” Ian manages. ”Did you... are you in some sort of trouble?” All that blood, Mickey might well have killed someone. But why come here, if he had? The Gallaghers have no business with the Milkoviches, not if they can avoid it, not even Frank.

It takes the other boy a moment to answer, and when he does his voice is low, the words slow: ”I think I'm dead.”

And Ian knows that he should splutter and fuss, laugh maybe, and demand to know what sort of sick jest this is – but he knows, too, knows without knowing how, that the other boy is telling the truth.

”What happened?” he asks quietly. Wonders why he isn't afraid, still.

”My father. He saw me – ” The boy cuts himself off, looks away. ”It doesn't matter. He's an evil bastard.”

Ian has no answer for that. If there is such a thing as true evil, as the preacher tells them there is every Sunday (only Ian isn't so sure he believes him, because the preacher speaks of so many sins that really shouldn't be sins at all, for surely a God that is only love can't think of any love as a sin, can he, and he'd ask Fiona, but she's got too many burdens already, and she doesn't need to carry his as well) – but if there is such a thing as true evil, then surely Terry Milkovich is it. They say he burned the Thomases' cottage to ground when they couldn't pay what they owed him, and they say that he doesn't shoot his dogs when they get too old to be of any use, but beats them to death, for the sheer pleasure of it. Looking at the bloodied boy before him now, Ian can believe it, even as his mind shies away from the thought, from imagining Milkovich standing over his son and –

Ian closes his eyes hard. Opens them again. His own father is a drunk and a cheat and a liar, but he rarely as much as slaps any of them.

”Does it hurt?” he asks, and it's a childish question, but the only one he can think to ask.

Mickey shakes his head. ”Nah. Don't feel like anything really. It's not so bad, actually. Quiet.” He looks around. ”Don't know what I'm doing here, though. It was like I was being _pulled_ , somehwere, and then suddenly it stopped, and I was just standing here.” He wiggles his shoulders. ”I still feel it. The pull. Don't think I'm here for much longer.”

He looks straight at Ian, expectantly, as if waiting for him to explain what is the meaning of it all, but Ian's got no explanation to give. Even as he watches, the other boy begins to fade around the edges, somehow becoming a little less solid, a little less _there_. Ian shrugs, helplessly: an apology. Mickey's shoulders sag impercetibly, and for a second Ian expects him to lash out, but there's no anger in other's face, only resignation.

”Maybe I'll see you again,” Ian offers hastily, for _something_ to offer, and immediately curses himself inwardly: what a foolish thing to say. And yet... And yet, for one fleeting moment, there is a sense of impossible but complete and utter certainty that somewhere, somehow, he _will_ see this wild and angry and broken boy again.

He can't explain why he feels so sure. Can't explain why the thought fills him with _relief_.

”Yeah, I doubt it.” Milkovich's laugh is a hollow thing. ”Where I'm going no good little Sunday school boy like you will ever follow.”

Ian doesn't tell him that if all he's learned in Sunday school is true, he'll burn right next to the murderers and the traitors and the blasphemers, forever and ever and ever.

”I don't believe in hell,” he says instead, defiantly, and is comforted to realize that it's the truth. Surely whatever comes after this world must be better than the cruelty and fear and grief of this one.

”Good for you,” Mickey drawls, but there is something in his eyes, something for just a moment before he is completely gone that Ian might, if he dared, name gratitude.

And then Ian is alone, with his sleeping siblings and father and the moonlight falling over the empty floor.

\---

In the morning, Ian sits over his porridge at the table like a man only half-awake.

”What's the matter with you?” his older brother asks, playfully punching him in the arm. ”Bad dreams?”

Had it been? Ian doesn't know and doesn't answer, but when word comes later that day, just as the sun begins to set and carried by Miss Veronica who heard it from Mr. Ball who heard it from the sheriff down at the saloon, there is no surprise, and – surprisingly – no fear, only a sense of quiet loss so profound that he can't voice even a word of polite astonishment or regret.

He heads out instead, to stand on the little hill behind their cottage, staring at the sunset so long and hard that his eyes begin to tear; staring at the horizon as if to spy beyond it the better world to come.


	8. Post-Season 10: Recognizing Trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I recently read "Proof Of What You Want" by Squash (JeSuisGourde) and ever since I've been pondering the fact that Mickey has had to live with the aftermath of 3x06 without Ian ever truly realizing the full extent of that; when it happens Ian is a lot more focused on what this means for him and his relationship to Mickey than on what it means for Mickey himself. I don't fault him for this, as he was just a kid and neither should have to carry that sort of responsibility, nor can be expected to have the emotional maturity to deal with something like that. And then Ian's illness happened, and then the break-up and separation, and I just don't think Ian ever really got around to processing the full scope of Mickey's trauma, even after they were reunited.
> 
> And then I thought about what would happen if Mickey were to casually recognize the signs of similar abuse in someone else, leading to Ian, no longer a lovesick teeanger and armed with quite a bit of mental health know-how, finally and fully getting it:

Julia is soon gone, thankfully, but somehow Carl's never long without a girl. The new one is called Evie, and she's nice enough: confident and maybe just a little bit crazy, the way Carl likes them. Sharp.

It's early days still when she comes over for the afternoon. Ian's out somewhere with Lip and Freddie, but Mickey's there, lounging about in the kitchen or on the couch. And it's a little unclear what happens, but she freaks _hard_ at something Carl does or says and maybe there's a few harsh words shouted or hissed before she's out the door, slamming it shut behind her in a very decisive way.

“What the fuck just happened?” Carl asks, utterly bewildered and to no one in particular.

Mickey answers him all the same. It's a guess, certainly, but it's an educated one. Carl has no way of knowing that, but he's always been a litle bit in awe of Mickey so he listens all the same. Goes after Evie, and finds her. Of course that doesn't fix anything for Evie, but it gives her and Carl something to start from if they so wish, an understanding of sorts.

And later that evening, when Lip and Ian return, Carl's at the kitchen table with Debbie and Franny. It is warm and it is bright, and they chat easily, talking about their respective days. Things take turn for the somber when Carl mentions what happened to Evie, but hey, it worked out pretty well.

“You teach Mickey that shit?” Lip asks Ian, raising an eyebrow in his direction and smirking ever so slightly. “Trying to get him to be your 'Save our Youth' wingman?”

But Ian isn't smiling at all. “Where is Mickey?” he asks quietly.

Carl shrugs. “Upstairs, I think.”

And Ian heads upstairs, heart beating much too hard, limbs feeling much too heavy. He knows, only too well, why Mickey might recognize symtoms such as these, and yet... Yet he never connected the dots, never applied the medical knowledge he has _now_ to what he knows of what Mickey went through _then_. Never fucking fully realized, though it's been staring him in the face ever since, in every barely aborted start, every sudden stillness and eyes averted -

He thinks he might throw up. The guilt is a cold and vicious thing tearing at his insides, because Mickey was there through his illness, through it all, stayed right by Ian's side until Ian wouldn't let him, but where was Ian when Mickey needed him, where the _fuck_ was he, and why the fuck didn't he ever fucking _think_ \- ?

Mickey's smoking on the bed, lazily checking whatever on his phone. He looks up when Ian entrers, offers a brief smile: “Hey.”

Ian is on him immediately, straddling his lap, arms wrapped around him so hard, and he is kissing him, kissing him, kissing him. Pours into the kiss all the apologies he knows Mickey will not want to hear, pours into it the love he wishes was enough to heal the past.

“Yeah, missed you too, Gallagher,” Mickey says a little breathlessly when they finally break apart. His gaze is sharp, though; searching. Catches the wetness in Ian's eyes. “What's going on?”

And Ian hesitates, because he doesn't know what to say but knows that Mickey would rather he say nothing at all. Would rather they keep on keeping it all locked away and on silent, as they have for so many years, because it is easier, because there has always been something else that needs their immediate attention, whether it's Ian's illness or surviving prison or planning a wedding.

No such excuses now. “Can we talk?” Ian asks, and hates that his voice fucking _breaks_ , that _he_ is the one breaking.

Mickey looks at him, both tense and resigned. Understands now where this is headed, and Ian is right – he would really rather not. “We have to?”

Ian lets go of a long sigh. The moment of uncertainty and weakness has passed; he knows what needs to be done and Ian is many things but not a coward: not when it comes to Mickey, not anymore. “Yeah. I think we do.” His eyes are very soft, like the touch of his thumbs as he runs them down Mickey's face.

Mickey sighs too. Says, “Fine.”


	9. Season 10: Worry and Manhandling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is running late; Ian is getting worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I’ve got a decent in-universe idea about why the cartel storyline doesn’t happen, I don’t really mind not seeing that whole thing play out – but I do feel robbed that we won’t get a scene like what follows below.

Mickey’s late home from work and he’s not picking up his phone, so Ian is starting to freak out because _what if the cartel got to him_? I don’t think a whole lot of time actually passes: not enough for Ian to mount a full-scale search and rescue operation, but enough for him anxiously pace the kitchen and repeatedly trying to call Mickey while Carl and Liam are having dinner.

And then Mickey walks through the kitchen door, casual as you please, and Ian is on him in a second, hugging and kissing him like he’s back from the dead rather than from Old Army – only to then slam him hard against the wall, spitting: “Where the _fuck_ have you been? What’s with not answering your fucking phone, asshole?”

Mickey is, unsurprisingly, a little taken aback by this ambiguous welcome – but he rallies quickly because, well, this _is_ Ian and Mickey and random bouts of mild violence isn’t exactly outside of their usual M.O.

“The fuck, Gallagher?” he growls, half-heartedly trying to push Ian off – but Ian is stronger and holds him in place, one fist clenched in Mickey’s t-shirt, arm pressing against his chest, and the other hand wrapped around Mickey’s right wrist. “Where were you?” Ian demands again. “I tried to fucking call you a million times.”

“ _Jesus._ I got held up at work, fucking bitch tried to take off with a bag of full of shit right when I was supposed to get off my shift.”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you text me? Or answer your _fucking phone_?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Big Brother, I wasn’t aware I had to check in with you every goddamned time I’m running a little late. I had to mute the sound for a meeting, forgot to turn it back on.” Mickey glances down at Ian’s arm pressed against his chest. “You need to cool your fucking beans, man.”

Ian slumps somewhat, but doesn’t really let go. His voice may be shaking ever so slightly. “I though you – I was so fucking worried about you.”

“You were, huh?” And, predictably, Mickey is starting to grin a little, because a, he will never not be blown away by the fact that Ian cares _so much_ about him, and b, he knows damned well how their physical altercations tend to develop, and c, he really is a bit of a little shit.

Ian glares at him because _this isn’t actually funny_. Mickey just stares right back, grinning wider, maybe doing his eyebrow thing, because _it’s a little bit funny and also kind of hot, hm?_ And then they are kissing again, roughly and probably muttering stuff along the lines of “you’re a fucking dick” and “you’re such a pussy” into the kisses. They may or may not then make their way up the stairs, slowly and kind of awkwardly because they just won’t let go of each other, and they won’t stop with the kisses or the insults either.

During this entire exchange, Carl and Liam have kept on calmly eating their dinner because, yeah, this is just the sort of shit you’ve got to expect when living with Ian and Mickey.


	10. Mickey, Involuntary Role Model

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Mickey as an unofficial and entirely involuntary role model for South Side queers.

Thing is, while Kev's assertion that 'no one cares who you bang' largely seems to hold true, I still can't see it _not_ causing at least a tiny bit of stir when the news first hit. You know, in general everyone just seem to know _a lot_ about everyone else in the neighborhood, and maybe they know an extra lot about the Milkoviches because they're pretty damned dangerous, and you'd do well to stay both informed and clear of them. Now, Mickey is _the_ neighborhood thug of his generation: the son and likely successor of a violent and homophobic Nazi, so him coming out as gay at his son's christening is... Well. Word gets around, is my point, even if most people are too busy with their own shitty lives to pay too much attention to Mickey's, beyond a wry observation or two.

Except some do pay attention. Some keep all this in their hearts and think about it often.

The years pass; Mickey goes to prison and escapes and returns and gets engaged; Terry burns down the wedding venue and threatens to kill him, Mickey gets married all the same. Word gets around, again. Life goes on, still.

And then one chilly February afternoon Mickey is walking home from wherever when he's approached by a teenage boy asking: “Uh, hey. You're Mickey Milkovich, right?”

In Mickey's experience that isn't the sort of question that leads to hugs and handshakes, so he's immediately wary, but a quick look at the boy dispels most of his concern. Sure, the kid looks nothing but South Side, scrappy like: can probably both take and dole out a beating, but he's clearly nervous – and not nervous in a way that suggests that he's about to do something utterly stupid like try to rob or murder Mickey. So, Mickey relaxes a little and lights a cigarette. Is maybe the tiniest bit curious, but mostly annoyed. “What the hell do you want?”

The kid hems and haws and Mickey is just about ready to walk away from this stammering snooze-fest when boy finally blurts: “I'm gay!”

 _What the actual fuck?_ Mickey stares. “Yeah? So fucking what? I'm married, asshole, and wouldn't be banging kids even if I wasn't.”

“No! Yeah, no, I mean – I know. I'm not... “ The kid's staring down at the ground. “I never told anyone before,” he adds softly.

Okay, that... does something strange to Mickey's insides, but he still has no idea what the hell is going on here. “You wanna talk to Ian?” he hazards. “Gay Jesus?” Riding out to save the day for troubled teens is Ian's _thing_ , isn't it, but fuck, he really hopes he isn't starting with _that_ shit again -

But the kid is shaking his head. “No, man, I was looking for _you_. 'Cause with your dad and everything I though that maybe... “ He pauses again, swallows. “I think my family's gonna be really angry if they find out.”

 _Ah_. Still doesn't explain how that is any of _Mickey's_ problem, but for some reason he can't find it in him to just shrug and walk away. He bites his lip. “They gonna kill you?”

“N-no. I mean... I don't think so. No.”

 _Then what the fuck are you whining about, you fucking pussy,_ Mickey doesn't say. He considers the kid, pale and damned near shaking before him, and wonders what he is _supposed_ to say, what the hell the boy wants from him. Why the fuck isn't Ian here to deal with this shit? He'd be much better at it; he'd fucking _love_ it, what with that goddamned Messiah complex he's got going...

But the kid hasn't come for Ian; he's come for Mickey and while Mickey isn't sure how the hell he came up with that _brilliant_ notion it probably has something to do with the fact that Ian, for all he is as South Side as they come, still looks and walks and talks like someone who... well, whose homosexuality wouldn't completely shock you. This kid doesn't, and Mickey doesn't either. There's South Side and then there's South Side.

He gives a long sigh and tosses his cigarette butt to the pavement.

“Listen. I have no fucking idea if your family is gonna be cool with you loving cock or whatever, but if they're not, they're not, and that's not gonna fucking change, no matter how long you wait. Sooner or later you'll have to say something 'cause you'll be fucking miserable if you don't, and if it's gonna suck either way you might as well get it over with.”

He pauses, for a moment hesitating over what he wants to say next, because it's fucking _soft_ and reveals way too much and... _Fuck it_. He clears his throat: “Fear's worse than whatever comes after anyway,” he says gruffly, not looking at the kid. Then, because this _is_ the South Side and he ain't nothing but pragmatic, he adds: “You think it's gonna get violent, tell someone you think might roll with it first and bring them to back you up. Fuck it, pay someone to have your back if you have to. Or do it somehwere public so someone calls for help if it gets out of hand. Hit them back and hit them hard, yeah? Lots of people gonna think you're a pussy for taking it up the ass, or giving it or whatever, and you wanna shut that down real quick, or you gonna be having the same fucking conversation over and over. You hear me?”

The kid nods jerkily. He still looks slightly terrified – which is _good_ because the last thing Mickey needs is some teenage queer running after him like a kicked puppy – but he looks strangely elated too. Hopeful, maybe; determined.

Mickey lets out a long breath, like a sigh. Can't quite belive he is doing this, but: “You have somewhere to go if shit goes sidways?”

A shrug. “I dunno. Maybe. I have an aunt down in Alsip. Maybe she'd let me crash there.”

“Give me your phone.” The kids looks surprised but does as he's told without comment. Mickey quickly enters his own number and hands the phonbe back. “Things go south, you text me,” he says. “I might know a guy who can help.” Though if that happens he is _absolutely_ dumping this on Ian, who probably knows a lot of people who live for this short of shit. Fucking hippies.

“Thank you, man,” the kids begins. “I really - “

Mickey waves him away. “Yeah, yeah, get the fuck out of here.”

The kid does and Mickey remains standing there for a moment, staring after him and wondering what the hell just happened. _This is all Gallagher's fault_ , he decides. Shit like this you can _always_ safely blame on Ian. Not that he'll mention any of this to him, because fuck no.

And if few days later there is a text from an unknown number, saying just: “talked to my family they're pretty freaked but it went ok thanks” and if Mickey does feel a small surge of something not entirely different from satisfaction reading it, well... Whatever. It is what it is. Not like it's gonna be a regular thing or whatever.

But once more, it seems, _word gets around_ , because there will be others. Not too many of them, but enough that it _does_ become a bit of a thing; kids showing up outside his home or his work, or on his way to and fro. Mostly they just want to talk; want some kind of reassurance that there's a way to be gay _and_ South Side, and you can still be a tough motherfucker while sucking some other dude's dick. Mickey primarily provides such reassurance by _being_ a tough South Side motherfucker who swears and scowls and glares at them, but apparently this kind of works? There's a bit of practical advice at times, like “listen, if you brother can't accept you like banging guys he doesn't really give a crap about you so just cut him out” or “don't fucking hesitate, they start with that shit you punch them in the throat, like this”, and maybe a few instances of Mickey hunting down and kicking the shit out of some bullies or family members, if he decides that the kid isn't likely to manage it on their own and deserves a hand.

Now, Mickey doesn't exactly _hide_ this shit from Ian, but he doesn't really mention it either because... Well, he just doesn't. The whole things is fucking weird, anyway. He doesn't know why he puts up with these stupid brats and he sure as hell didn't ask to be anyone's fucking guardian angel.

But of course Ian finds out eventually, and he is absolutely torn between mercilessly teasing Mickey about it ( _aaaaaw, Mick, it's so sweet that you care!_ ) and just covering Mickey's entire body in kisses because he's so damned delighted and _proud_ (I mean, it _is_ sweet that Mick cares; hot too). In the end he probably goes for both, but pretty gently, because he knows Mickey and knows that making too big a deal out of it _might_ freak him out. Or not. It's always hard to tell when Mickey will be embarrassed about something and when he'll just declare that liking what he likes doesn't make him a bitch. Ian figures it's better not to take the risk, though, not when they are teenagers in need out there! So, a little moderate ribbing, a lot of particularly attentive sex, and Mickey finds that he doesn't mind Ian knowing so much after all, because there's something about that stupid redhead looking at him like he's a fucking wonder that feels pretty good.

So maybe he'll keep on helping the kids, if they keep on showing up. You know, out of pure self-interest.


	11. Mickey and the Milkoviches: Stag Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps one day they'll learn to care for each other in ways beyond what is immediately needed for survival.

Iggy and Colin and Joey and whoever do not attend the wedding simply because they're locked up or on the run (which, you know, _is_ the natural state of a Milkovich). But! Eventually they get out/get away/get acquitted ( _how?!_ ) and return home!

And so there comes a night and a knock on the door of 2110 South Wallace and when Carl opens it there's a small bunch of assorted Milkovich males standing outside, asking for Mickey. Now, Carl isn't bright, but he's not an idiot either, so he mutters something about not being sure and going to check – carefully closing the door behind him as he does so.

Mickey's upstairs, bickering with Ian while they're both giving each other hearteyes when they think the other isn't looking, and when Carl brings him the news of these unexpected visitors Mickey isn't so much concerned as confused. It's not like he hangs our or even talks with his brothers and cousins very often these days, what with him staying clear of both his dad and most illegal endeavours. They've all been remarkably chill about his sexuality, though, so he doubts this is some new trap of Terry's. Giving Ian a small shrug, he heads down the stairs and opens the door to the porch, where Iggy and company are patiently waiting.

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, eyebrows expressing a fair amount of skepticism over their presence.

“You got married, dude!” Colin exclaims.

“Yeah,” Mickey says again, eyebows rising even higher. “Like a year ago.”

“Yeah, well, we weren't around then,” Iggy says blithely. “Figured we owe you a stag party. Or, you know, at least a bunch of drinks.”

Mickey stares. His brothers and cousins stare back at him expectantly. Eventually, Mickey blinks. “What, like now?”

“Yeah, now!” There are smiles and energetic nods and this is _really_ fucking strange because Mickey and his brothers and cousins have never been close, not the way the Gallaghers are, but... it's a good kind of strange, maybe? Mickey takes a moment or two to process the whole thing and then he just nods _:_ “Fuck it, let's go. Just gonna grab my jacket.”

So he grabs his jacket and shrugs at Ian, who's been eavesdropping around the corner and now mouths “stag night?”, and then Mickey and his brothers and cousins get shitfaced at The Alibi and laugh and talk about nothing much at all and it's a _good_ night, the kind they've very rarely had.

And if Mickey reeks of booze and makes an awful racket and wakes Ian up when he stumbles home at halft past two, Ian doesn't really mind at all, but simply wraps his arms around his husband and presses a kiss to his left shoulder, because if there's one thing he'd never begrudge Mickey it's the sense of easy belonging that's always been such a huge a part of Ian's life and family, but never – until now, perhaps – of Mickey's.


	12. Post S10: Running into Clayton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know, I figure that it's quite possible that Mickey still doesn't know about Frank not being Ian's biological father. Not because Ian's tried to keep it a secret from him or anything, but because Ian finds the whole thing so utterly irrelevant that he neither thinks nor speaks of it again after his and Lip's little trip to see Clayton. So what if, on one happy day, Ian and Mickey runs into dear old bio dad?

It goes like this:

Ian is picking Mickey up from work, because for once there's no kids to look after and they both just got paid and true to the somewhat unorthodox timeline of their relationship they've started going on dates now that they're married. Not too often and nothing too fancy, but a meal in a decent restaurant once in a while; a movie maybe; a few drinks. Makes them feel very adult and normal (which is probably more important to Ian than it is to Mickey) and besides, it's just nice to get away from everyone else and their drama once in a while.

So, Ian's waiting for Mickey just outside Old Army, and Mickey's changed out of his uniform – which he hates and Ian finds just a little bit cute, they way he finds a lot of things about Mickey cute – and now he's wearing a pair of black jeans and gray shirt that might be slightly too hot for the season, but which speaks of him _making an effort_ , and yeah, that's Ian's heart fluttering just a little bit, because _Mickey_.

There's casual “heys” coupled with small but subtly delighted smiles, and then they're leisurely making their way out of the mall, chatting about their respective and fairly uneventful days when a small toddler suddenly runs toward them at a truly impressive speed, eyes eagerly trained on a giant teddybear over by the toy store. Ian takes a small step to the left to avoid being mowed down by the kamikaze kid and almost bumps into an well-dressed man going the other way. Both Ian and the man begins to offer polite apologies, but then they _see_ each other, and the words die on their lips.

Mickey's still walking, but it only takes him a few steps to realize that Ian's no longer by his side, so he stops, too; turns back to survey the scene.

It's a fucking _weird_ scene, Ian staring stonily at some red-haired guy who's staring right back at him with a really strange expression on his face, surprise mixed with uncertainty and something else that Mickey doesn't quite recognize. And it's odd, but the guy kind of looks like Ian, except older and shorter and less hot.

Now, Ian would probably prefer to just mutter his apology and move on, but before he can do that Clayton clears his throat: “Ian. Hi.”

Ian dips his head. “Hi.”

A pause. Mickey looks from Ian to Clayton and back again but doesn't say anything. Clayton tries for a tentative smile. “Are you... doing okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Another protracted silence.

“I, ah, saw something on the net,” Clayton finally asks. “About a van that... exploded? There was a trial?”

Ian lets out a soft sigh _,_ as if giving in to something inevitable. “Yeah. Got sent to prison, was released within the year, married Mickey,” – he indicates Mickey with a small jerk of his head – “and started working as an EMT again. Still live back at the house. I'm doing fine now.” His voice is earnest but his face carefully blank as he looks straight at Clayton. Giving nothing away; inviting nothing.

Clayton nods slowly: understands. There might be a flicker of sadness in his eyes, but there's relief too. “Glad to hear you're doing well,” he says and sounds like he means it, even as he shifts ever so slightly, even as he's already getting ready to move away and move on. He glances at Mickey and smiles briefly. “Congratulations on your marriage,” he offers.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

One last, lingering look, and Clayton is gone. Mickey watches him hurry away with a slight frown, before turning to Ian – who for some reason is studiously avoiding his eyes. “What the fuck was that?”

Ian still won't at him as they start walking, stepping out of the mall and into the summer twilight. “What was what?”

Mickey gives a little snort of a laugh at that, raising an eyebrow, because _really, Gallagher_?

“ _That_ , asshole,” he says. “Why the fuck did he stare at you like that? And why you acting all weird?” When Ian still doesn't answer, he adds. “C'mon, man, you're the one always whining about how we need to talk about our fucking feelings or whatever. What's going on?” And if he sounds a bit impatient now, if he sounds a bit rough, it's probably because he's starting to worry, just a little. Ian has a habit of keeping things close to his chest, but he doesn't normally _hide_ stuff – not from Mickey, not anymore.

A thought occurs to him, and it's actually nasty enough to twist his stomach: “Jesus, did you and your uncle – ?”

“What? No!” Ian gives him a wide-eyed look, which then turns togresignation. “Monica did,” he mutters. “I guess he's kind of my... biological father.”

And that... Mickey wasn't expecting that. Has no idea how to react to that. “What, really?” is what he finally says. 

“Yeah, really.”

They walk on in silence for a while. Mickey keeps sneaking glances at Ian, who keeps staring down at his feet as they cross the street and enter La Villitia Park. Mickey might bite his lip, that old habit that he's mostly shaken but doesn't always bother to repress when he's alone with Ian. 

Finally he offers: “I found out Terry wasn't my dad, I'd throw a fucking parade. I'm not fucking kidding, there'd be fireworks and shit. And if my real dad had any money, I'd milk the motherfucker for every last cent. Serve him right for dumping me with fucking Terry.”

That seems to have the desired effect, because Ian smiles, a tiny little thing. “Yeah, well. Frank's an asshole, but he hasn't got anything on your dad.” He pauses. “It's not really about him anyway. It's everyone else, Fiona, Lip, the kids. They're my family. I don't want that to change.”

“They'd still be your family, man. Same mom, right?”

“It wouldn't be the same. It's... Whatever. I just don't care. I don't care if he's my father.” He shrugs. “I just don't.”

Mickey nods. “All right. Where are you taking me anyway? I'm fucking starving.”

And this is the point, I think, where Ian is once again hit by an almost overwhelming rush of love for his husband, because Mickey just  _accepts_ this; accepts Ian and Ian's feeling without batting a lid and without making a big deal out of it. He has a way of taking things in his stride, Mickey; of rolling with the punches, and not even the very sudden and surprising appearance of a biological father is enough to rattle him. For all his volatile temper and violent tendencies, there's something strong and steady here, and yeah, Ian loves him for it. 

Impulsively, he reaches out to tug at Mickey's arm, and when Mickey comes to a halt and turns to look askance at him, Ian pulls him in for a brief but passionate kiss. Mickey lets him; returns it.

(And there's a small wonder here, though neither of them has a thought to spare for it right at this moment: a small wonder in the way Ian kisses Mickey, right there on the street, in the fading daylight, and in the way that Mickey lets him. In the way he doesn't even hesitate.) 

“The fuck was that for?” Mickey asks, eyebrow raised, once they break apart and start walking again. It comes out a little grumpy, maybe, but the small, secret smile on Mickey's face is anything but. He knows what it was for anyway, and Ian knows that he knows, so he doesn't answer. Lights a cigarette instead, and takes a drag before handing it over to Mickey. 

“New pizza place opened down by the river,” he says. “Mia at work was going on and on about it, thought we'd give it a go.”

“Yeah?” Mickey ask, blowing smoke at the sky. “Pizza's good, man. But anyone try to put goddamned pineapple on my pie, I'll shove it so far down their throat they'll taste it down in fucking Hawaii.”

Ian laughs. “You know that doesn't make any fucking sense?”

Mickey just grins at him. He knows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, pineapple on pizza is dope, and Mickey is just crazy.


	13. Post-S10: Carl confesses that he once had a crush on Mickey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since I read the very funny fic ”Carl's Got a Crush” by the_rat_wins, I've been somewhat partial to the notion of Carl having a tiny little crush on Mickey, way back when and once upon a time. Probably more of a subtle hero worship thing than anything elser, but still. Sometimes I think about it coming up in a conversation somewhere down the road, and I like to imagine it might go a little like this:

Everyone in the house is hanging out in the kitchen ('cause we love it when they do that) and Debbie and whoever – Sandy maybe? - is discussing the fluidity of sexual orientation, when Carl just casually drops that ”yeah, I kinda had a crush on Mickey when I was a kid”.

Silence.

”Uh, what,” Mickey asks, rather taken aback but, you know, probably a little bit pleased too. It takes him but a moment to recover from the shock, and then he grins in Carl's direction, raising his bottle of beer in a toast. ”You've got good taste, kid.”

And of course it's entirely unnecessary and quite frankly stupid – and Ian _knows_ that – but Ian can't help but feel a stab of jealousy. He doesn't quite glare at Carl but the look he gives him is rather flat as he wraps an arm possessively around Mickey.

”Yeah, you can't have him,” he says, and it's only half a joke.

Mickey doesn't mind this development one bit, by the way. He glances at Ian, looking downright _smug_. ”C'mon, Gallagher,” he teases. ”Fiona never taught you how to fucking share?”

Carls scoffs, because he _really_ should have known better than to get these two started. ”Sorry, dude, I'm over you now,” he says with an eyeroll.

”Better be,” Ian mutters, still with his arm around Mickey, and still only half-joking.

Mickey's grin only grows wider. There'll be some pretty rough fucking later that night, and Mickey, for one, is _very_ much looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't write smut because a, it doesn't really interest me, and b, I rather think I'd mess a right mess of it, but I'm kinda, maybe, a little tempted to try my hand at the sex scene that would follow this. Probably won't happen, but you know. Maybe.


	14. Nightmares

He wakes, heart hammering, heart in his throat. Only fragments of the dream remain, splinters, stabbing,  _ sharp _ – 

He pushes them away; pushes away from them. 

Sitting up, blinking against the darkness, Mickey takes a breath; another. Next to him, Ian is still asleep, on his side, lips slightly parted. 

Mickey's heart is still beating much too fast, but is slowing. The room is fully dark, the night outside their window quiet, as quiet as the South Side ever gets. Nothing there to disturb them. Nothing there to threaten them.

Nothing but what they carry with them. 

Mickey hesitates. Knows what he wants, what he  _ needs, _ but isn't sure – maybe he'd better – maybe he shouldn't – 

He pushes that thought away, too. Sets his jaw against the universe: they are married. He can have this. He can ask for this.

So, slowly, he lays himself back down again, scooting back until his back is pressed against Ian's chest. Grabs for Ian's arm, pulls it over him, a shield against the dreams, against the darkness, warm.

Feels Ian stir, there in the quiet room. First just a grunt, then a murmur, then: “Mickey?”

He doesn't answer. Feels Ian's arm tighten around his chest, his hand sneaking up to brush over Mickey's cheek, briefly. Again: “Mickey?”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

A pause. “Bad dream?”

And he hesitates. Still, he does that. But: “Yeah.”

“Mm." 

And Ian doesn't ask. Doesn't try to make him talk about his nightmares; not now, not here in the quiet of the night, in the darkness of their room. Instead he shifts, slightly, pressing ever closer, pressing a kiss to Mickey's shoulder. “I love you,” he says, and his voice is heavy with sleep, but the words are clear. “I've got you.”

And it's just words, and it's just a body pressed against his, and it seems that it shouldn't be enough, not against the night and not against the city and against all that lurks in the shadows behind them.

And yet it is. And Mickey sleeps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually a return to a semi-poetic style I favoured when writing tiny little ficlets for the Sherlock fandom. It feels distincly odd to utilize it for Gallavich, but here we are.


	15. Season 3: Angry Sex (except no actual smut)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if things had gone a little differently in 3x11? Either Ian decides he's content to be Mickey's sidepiece for now, or Mickey somehow finds a way out of getting married (though that seems sadly unlikely). Important thing is, they're back to banging. Only now Mickey's discovered the joys of angry sex (“Goddamn Gallagher, I ought to get you pissed off more often”) and for a while things get just a tiny bit out of hand.

Play fighting and a certain amount of aggression have always been an integral part of their sexlife, but what Mickey realizes during their pre-wedding tryst is that he _really_ digs Ian sometimes being extra rough and possessive. However, this falls into the category of stuff he's not yet comfortable outright admitting or asking for. (It's always a bit unpredictable with Mickey, isn't it, what he'll be perfectly fine owning and what's more difficult, and I think that at this point he's still wary of anything that might overtly suggest that he occasionally likes to play at being overpowered or at submission. He off-handedly hints at it that one time, right after they fuck, but if Ian doesn't pick up and act on it, I don't think Mickey would bring it up again. Could also be that he doubts Ian's ability to bring it if he's not actually angry: who knows?)

So Mickey does what any sensible thug would do, and starts pissing Ian off on purpose, to recapture the happy glory of that angry fuck. He'll probably have to work quite hard for it, since Ian tends to look at most of Mickey's shenanigans with indulgence or even fond amusement/admiration, but Mickey's a clever guy (and a dumbass), so he'll find a way.

It should go without saying, but Ian's not amused. Depending on how they got back together, it might be that they're already on somewhat wobbly ground, what with Mickey getting hitched to a pregnant woman, or it might be that they're finally _together_ together, and maybe even out, and things should be all sorts of dandy, but for whatever reason Mickey keeps being a huge fucking prick, and... yeah, Ian's not into it. Well, he's into the sex, 'cause it's fucking fantastic, but still. They were _finally_ moving towards something more open and emotional before the-sleepover-of-which-they-do-not-speak, so this feels like a huge step back.

And if truth be told... deep down, Mickey's not entirely thrilled either. Sure the sex is great, but try as he might to deny it, he really does have a ton of feelings for Ian, and having him get more and more annoyed with Mickey isn't all that much fun. Also, there are times when he starts to feel goddamned _weird_ once the thrill of the fuck fades, and he's not sure what that's all about, but it's not nice. He doesn't quit, though – doesn't quite know _how_ to quit, maybe – and between the rounds of rage-filled romping, our boys are getting a little frayed around the edges.

At first Ian probably thinks the whole thing has something to do with what went down with Terry. Maybe Mickey's acting like a jerk because he's still messed up from that; maybe he blames Ian for it and is resentful. Ian tries to bring it up, but Mickey just brushes him off, which is completely predictable but still gives Ian the sense that there's something else at work here. (Though, to be fair, what happened to them after the sleepover probably does play some small part in what goes down now. They're back together, but this is still a messy time in both of their lives.)

Now, Ian is neither stupid nor one to let things go, so it doesn't take him all that long to figure out what's really going on. The realization pisses him off all over again, but now that he knows what's up, he can deal. Which he does by finding Mickey up in one of the abandoned buildings, firing at cans. Ian doesn't bother with so much as a _hey_ , he simply grabs hold of Mickey's shirt and pushes him against the nearest wall.

Mickey isn't sure what he did to get Ian so worked up this time, and on the one hand that kind of freaks him out – everthing's gotten so goddamned _tangled_ and he never meant for it to be like this, but what the hell was he supposed to _do_? (Well, not _that_ , Mick...) – but on the other hand he can't help getting a little excited at the prospect of another angry bang, so he probably gives a hoarse little chuckle and makes some sort of snarky comment, you know how it goes.

Only Ian doesn't start pulling at his clothes or aggressively kissing him, but instead looks him straight in the eye and asks in a surprisingly calm voice: “Have you been acting like a fucking asshole on purpose so I'll angry fuck you?”

And with a sinking feeling Mickey realizes that _this isn't angry sex, this is talking about stuff._

Well, he did _not_ sign up for that shit so he pushes Ian away with a “fuck off” and tries to stalk off in a huff, but Ian blocks his path and for whatever reason Mickey can't bring himself to punch him in the face. Maybe it's because Ian is obviously pissed but there's something else in his eyes too, something _kind_ and _knowing_ and Mickey doesn't have much of a defense against it. Doesn't _want_ to defend himself against it; not really; not anymore.

Doesn't know what to say or do either, though, so he mutters a “goddamn it, Gallagher” and grabs for a cigarette, lights it.

Ian waits until he's had a few drags, then asks again: “Have you?”

He's not going to let this go, Mickey knows. Maybe it's for the best, but that doesn't make it any easier. “I don't know,” he says without looking at Ian. “Maybe.”

Which as much of an admission as he'll ever make, and Ian knows it. He relaxes a little, relief mixing with tiredness and annoyance. “You know you can just fucking _tell_ me there's stuff you want me to do, Mickey,” he says, flatly.

Mickey glares. Fuck Ian. Fuck him for saying it like it's so damned _simple._ “Yeah, well, some of us prefer actual banging over talking about banging, and if you have a goddamned problem with that maybe you should have that rich motherfucker you jused to date pay for a few trips to the shrink, save my sorry ass from having to listen to you whine about it like a little bitch.“

He regrets the words as soon as he speaks them. He doesn't mean to start shit again, really he doesn't, but it's just hell of a lot easier to do that than to, you know, actually talk about stuff.

Thankfully, terrifyingly, Ian doesn't rise to the bait. He gives him a Look, though, because _fucking really, Mickey?_ and Mickey makes a face. “Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry,” he mutters, and they both know it's an apology for more than just this one outburst. “Can you please get on me now?”

For a moment, Ian just watches him. Then he steps closer, reaching up to touch Mickey's face before pulling him into a kiss that is just so very soft, so very tender – and so very different from what they've been doing in the past few weeks. (Or ever, really, except for that one glorious night before it all went to hell.)

Mickey is startled at first; a little apprehensive probably, and caught between reflexively wanting to pull away and wanting to lean into it. He doesn't do either; he doesn't move, and Ian's arms are warm around him, strong, and... this is nice. Makes Mickey feel incredibly vulnerable and completely safe at the same time, and he hadn't known he wanted this, too.

Eventually, Ian pulls away a little, breaking the kiss. His hand is still resting on the back of Mickey's head as he seeks the other boy's eyes: “Want me to be rough?”

Mickey hesitates. Not so much because he doesn't know the answer, but because this truth is perhaps even harder to admit to than admitting that he sometimes does want Ian to just take control.

“No,” he finally murmurs, because as exciting as the angry stuff is is, as much as he craves that at times, it's not what he wants – what he _needs_ – right now. Not after weeks of fighting; and not after that gentle kiss that stirred something new and unnameable in him. “No,” he repeats; a little surer now. “Just... No.”

So Ian isn't.

\---

Ian asks him again a week or so later, when the movie they're halfway through watching has been entirely forgotten in favor of eager groping and incessant kissing. Ian pauses, one hand in Mickey's hair, the other on his waist, and he asks quietly: “Want me to be rough?”

Mickey stills. Looks away. Breathes rather than speaks his soft: “Yeah.”

And Ian just give a short nod before he tighten his hold of Mickey's hair, tugging sharply to twist Mickey's head to the side, exposing his neck. “Was that so fucking hard?” he asks, and there's just enough of an edge to his voice to make it not just teasing.

It sends a shiver down Mickey's spine.

He still Mickey, though, so he gives Ian his very best unimpressed look. “Come on, Gallagher, you wanna make goddamned small talk or you gonna show me what you've got?”

“Tell me you want it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Tell me. Or we can go back to watching the movie. It's your choice.”

Mickey groans. Or maybe moans, he isn't sure. Ian's fingers are still twisted in his hair, the pain of it unexpectedly sharp, _perfect_. Mickey closes his eyes. All right then. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ian, could you maybe just fuck me now, _please_ , be a little bit rough about it?”

So Ian is.


	16. Post-S10: Slight Angst, Cuddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes. Woke up this morning to remember that apparently I wrote a tiny ficlet after getting home from an evening out with my book club*. Used to be a regular thing for me, back when I was heavyily into the Sherlock fandom, writing short little weird bits when I got home from a party or whatever. Anyhow, I tend to get somewhat sentimental when tipsy, so I changed the 'almost every night' of the Tumblr version to 'some nights' here because I just don't REALLY think Mickey's all that... whump about it still.

Seven months into their marriage and some nights, there is a moment, still:

Mickey's already in bed, or he's climbing into it to stretch out next to Ian's reading form, and there are soft words, banter, kisses maybe - and then one of them turns to the other, shifts to turn the light off, and they settle into the bed; into the night; into each other.

And some nights it comes to Mickey that

_this cannot be real. he cannot have this. he could never have_ **_this_ ** _._

and at the same time

_there is nothing in his life that has felt more natural, more_ **_true_ ** _, than ian's arms around him. nothing more_ **_real_ ** _than the way ian's body curves around his, or the way ian's lips press against his shoulder, ian's breath brushes over his neck._

Seven months into their marriage and for a moment, the impossibiity of those dual truths will still leave him frozen; leave him paralyzed still.

Only for a moment, though – only for that. Then there is Ian's lips again; there is his breath, steady, calm; and the strenght of his arms. Mickey settles into those, into that, and into the certainty that one day – one or two or seven months from now – it will be all that he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *How to have The Best book club: Gather 5-6 of your novel inclined friends. Go out and have two (2) glasses of wine (and discuss the previous book you read, unless it's your first meeting, in which case you can discuss whatever). Then head to your favourite bookstore and pick up whatever seems a interesting and they have 5-6 copies of. Argue about where to have dinner. Come to a decision and have dinner, and maybe a couple more drinks. (Please, only do this if and when it's safe with regards to corona, and remember to follow all local restrictions and guidelines.)


	17. Post-S10: Liam asks Ian how you know if someone likes you

Okay, so I'm still somewhat hooked on the notion of Liam turning out to be aro/ace, but I am also _very_ into him coming home one day in the near future and asking the room at large _how do you know if someone likes you?_

Ian, on one of the high chairs by the kitchen counter, gives a snort of a laugh – but off Liam's offended stare, quickly says: “Not laughing at you. Just remembering asking my friend Mandy that once, when I was trying to figure out if this grumpy asshole I'd been seeing was into me or not.”

The look he throws Mickey's way is decidedly teasing.

Mickey raises one eyebrow, but he's grinning too. “Oh yeah? What she say?”

“To check if he got _that look_ in his eye when I was with him.”

At that, Mickey's smile immediately morphs into a (faint) scowl. “What fucking look?”

“Mmm, asked her that too. She said I'd know it when I saw it.”

“Did you?” Liam interjects, torn between being curious and being not quite ready to have this entire conversation be hijacked by Ian and Mickey being Ian and Mickey.

Ian shrugs. “Not then, no. Mick got sick of me staring at him, asked me what the fuck I was doing.”

“I was fucking right to,” Mickey says. He takes a sip of his beer. “Don't remember it, though.”

“It was just after you got out of juvie for the second time. You know, right before you fucked Angie Zago.”

Liam is on the verge of asking Mickey _you slept with women_ but clamps his mouth shut, because on second thought he doesn't actually want to know. In fact, he wishes he knew far less about Mickey's – and Ian's – sex life than he does. It's a small house. Thin walls.

“How did you know then?” he asks instead; does it quickly, because Ian and Mickey are eyeing each other with the sort of half-glare that usually turns into bickering proper or into them making out (or into both, more often than not).

“Knew what?” Ian asks, not looking away from Mickey.

Liam rolls his eyes. For a pretty sharp guy, Ian can get pretty damned ditzy when his husband is around. “That Mickey liked you.”

“Ah.” And now he turns towards Liam; the glare is gone and he's grinning again; a little amused, a little smug. “Probably when he followed me all the way downtown and then beat up my date 'cause he was jealous I was having a drink with another dude.”

And it's at this point that Mickey starts spluttering into his beer and launches into a rant about how Ian wasn't just _having drinks_ he was going to _bang some old grey-pubed pervert_ and Mickey _wasn't fucking jealous anyway_ he just didn't have any fucking patience for _walking corpses thinking they could ride whatever teenage dick they wanted just 'cause they were fucking loaded_.

Liam's pretty sure he doesn't need to hear this. Ian is eyeing him like maybe he's thinking the same thing. He gets up and walks over to Mickey, crowding him, putting his large hand around the back of his husband's head with a small smirk like _is that so, huh_.

Liam takes it as his cue to leave. Maybe he can find Debbie, ask her instead. Or Lip.

He pauses on the way out, though. “Ian?”

When his older brother straightens – breaking away from Mickey muttering _who the fuck says I even like you, asshole_ against this lips – and gives him a questioning look, he continues: “You ever see the look?”

And Ian's face softens; his smile is soft, and his eyes are soft, and the thumb he runs over Mickey's cheek, seemingly unconscioulsy, is soft too. “All the time.”


	18. Post-S04: Swimming Pool Party at the Gallaghers'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to this lovely Tumblr ask: 
> 
> I'm just imagining Mickey going to the late night Gallagher pool parties with Ian and obviously not wanting to splash about like the rest of those Idiots (affectionate), but just chilling on the side steps with V, chatting a bit, maybe playing a little with Liam and keeping him company til he'sready to join in. Eventually Mickey helps him pull on his water wings & dumps him in the pool so he can play with his older siblings before rejoining V and watching Ian be happy and have fun with his family and just basking in the glow of a family enjoying themselves together and he's allowed to be part of that as much as he wants and I- 🥺

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn't going to update this one with new chapters, as I'd come across several posts on Tumblr suggesting that posting each little ficlet as seperate one-shots would be better for both me and readers. However, while I still think the logic of those posts are very sound, I just don't feel comfortable posting these very short, half-assed ficlets as new fics. Tried it once, with the Mickey met Geneva thing and I... didn't like it, so I stopped uploading my Tumblr stuff here entirely. Not happy with that either, so it's back to adding them as new chapters to this one instead: got a few pieces I'll be uploading in the coming days. Thank you to Tumblr user mimilaroo for giving me the incentive to get on with it. <3

There would have been a bunch of those pool parties that summer, as there is every summer, but one of them has to be the first, right? Ian's perked up by then; he's been over at the Gallagher house for dinners and few movie nights maybe, even if he mostly prefers to keep close to Mickey. It's still so new, them not needing to hide anymore, and he wants to cherish every second. But he loves his family too, of course, so every now and then – once getting out of bed stopped seeming like this huge impossible thing – he pops over. Talks trash with Lip, teases Carl, gives Liam a kiss (and ignores the serching looks Fiona gives him when she thinks he doesn't notice). Mickey doesn't usually join him; while he doesn't _mind_ the Gallaghers, he's never been big on socializing and anyway he's got better shit to do than sit around and chat with Ian's loud as hell siblings, fuck you very much. (He spoke to Fiona quite a lot, when Ian wouldn't fucking talk or eat or _move_ for days, but Ian got better, didn't he, he's fine now, and Mickey's a bit pissed at Fiona, and at Lip too, for making it seem like this huge deal, like the end of the fucking world.)

But now it's the summer and it's hot as balls and Ian's eager smile and promise of a cool dip and a cooler beer is pretty damned enticing. They grab towels and walk off, passing a cigarette back and forth as they make their way from the Milkoviches place to the Ian's childhood home.

Once there, no one as much as bats a lid to see Mickey arrive with Ian. They never do, these days. There are greetings for both of them, hugs for Ian and smiles for Mickey.

”Hi, Mickey,” Debbie calls. Lip hands him a beer, Fiona waves.

Like it's no big deal that he's there. Like he belongs.

And okay, he stayed with them for weeks, after Ian came back but before Mickey came out. Ate their food, helped with the bills. That had been different, though. He'd just been someone Ian let crash on the floor, barely tolerated by the older siblings and little more than a blip on the radar to the younger ones.

Now he's Ian's boyfriend and there's smiles and a beer when he shows up.

It's fucking weird. Not bad, maybe, but... weird. Not what he's used to. Hostility he can deal with; fear he encourages; unequestioning acceptance is new and a little unsettling.

Maybe it's because sometimes one of them will throw him a casual glance and he'll realize that it's their brother's lover they're seeing and his heart will start beating much too fast and his fists will tighten because they _know_ , they see him and they fucking _know_ and there's nowhere to hide and it's stupid, it's so fucking stupid, because it's okay, it doesn't matter anymore, and still he feels stripped naked and defenseless and it's all he can do not to fucking punch someone.

He doesn't join Ian in the pool. Heads for the stairs instead, beer in one hand, the other groping for another cigarette. He relaxes a little as he feels the familiar press of it between his lips, the bitter taste inhaled deeply into his lungs.

”Damn, I love these people like family, but they are _noisy_.” That's V, walking out the door and sitting down next to him rather than heading over to the others.

Mickey just nods. There _is_ fuckload of noise, but that's just the Gallaghers, their way, and it's happy and excited noise. Laughter and delighted shrieks and the splash of water as Ian throws Carl in the pool. He doesn't mind.

V keeps making small talk, telling some story about something that went down at the bar, and he's only listening with half an ear but he manages to make a few grunts in the right places, throw in a ”huh” and ”I bet” here and there, and it's okay. The little kid, Liam, for some reason decides that he's going to sit by Mickey's feet and show him his whole box of plastic toys, solemnly lifting them up one after the other for inspection, and what the hell is Mickey supposed to say when confronted with a fucking toddler holding up a red plastic spade and seriously proclaiming it a - you guessed it - ”spade!”? Congratulations, kid, right on the fucking money, that's a spade?

But that's okay too. The kid's quiet mostly, and doesn't seem to mind that Mickey doesn't say much either, and when he waves his water wings right under Mickey's nose with an expectant look on his small face, sure, Mickey will help him put the things on and carry him over to the pool for Lip (clever enough keep quiet and with a carefully neutral look on his face and fuck you to, _Philip_ ) to take over. Then Mickey heads back to the stairs and as the night wears on he starts to feel pretty good, just sitting there, chilling and having a few more beers and sneaking glances of Ian's naked torso glistening in the failing sunlight.

He still doesn't join the others in the pool, though. Not tonight; not yet. But he thinks that, maybe, he won't protest the next time Ian asks him to come.

(And Ian... Ian keeps throwing him these little looks, these _knowing_ looks. When the rest of the family starts to get up and drop off one by one, he stays in the pool. Stays there, until it's only him and Mickey left. Only then does Ian tilt his head to his side and give Mickey a grin that's half invitation, half challenge: ”You getting in?”

”After half your family pissed in the fucking water? Don't think so, Gallagher.”

Ian just laughs. ”Come on.”

And whatever. It's what he came here for, isn't it, and it might be in the middle of the night but it's still fucking hot. Mickey stubs out his cigarette and pulls of his tank top, tossing it to the side before joining Ian in the pool. The water's probably warmer than the air at this point, but so what, it's still feels pretty good to get down in it.

Ian's by the other end of the pool, watching Mickey with an inscrutable look on his face.

”Hey,” he says, and his voice is quiet and soft. It would never have carried over the din from before, but it's just the two of them now. Quiet and soft works.

Letting go of a sigh, Mickey smiles a little. ”Hey.”)


End file.
